


To Preen A Songbird

by tiger_in_the_flightdeck



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff without Plot, Footnotes, Grooming, M/M, One Shot, Sappy Crowley is Sappy, Wing Grooming, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 07:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19389448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_in_the_flightdeck/pseuds/tiger_in_the_flightdeck
Summary: It's grooming day for Crowley, and preening his angelic friend brings back happy memories.





	To Preen A Songbird

**Author's Note:**

> My first published Good Omens fic, but by no means my first written one. I'd written dozens of ficlets for Good Omens about fifteen years ago before I knew that fanfiction was a thing that people did. None of those stories survive as anything other than memories, but it will be fun to start bringing them back to life now that there's more than thirteen people and a rock as the fandom.  
> With most of my Ineffable Husbands stories, my first source will always be the book, so there will probably be things that aren't compliant with the show, or with things Gaiman has said about them since then.  
> As always, thanks to Beltainefaerie and Christyimnotred for reading while I wrote.

Aziraphale waited while the small snake made its way over the pebbled path before it wound its way around the stalk of an angel’s trumpet to hide under the broad leaves away from the sun. The little creature tried to blend into the greenery and somehow managed to look petulant when it realised it was still being watched even in its hiding place. Beaming, Aziraphale wished it a pleasant day and told it where it could find some particularly lazy mice on the other side of the raised planter before moving on, shifting his own plant from arm to arm for balance. 

When this habit of exchanging small gifts had started, neither could say(1), but the angel had taken to supporting Crowley’s growing collection of green things. Often the gifts were teasingly symbolic. A prickly cactus which produced sweet fruit; an aloe which had been a cutting from a much larger specimen, with sharp edges and defensive barbs and a soothing core; a tiny bonsai which stubbornly produced a beautifully tart and crisp full sized apple each year. The white bird of paradise he was now carrying might have been a bit on the nose, he had to admit. 

The little old lady who lived on the floor below Crowley’s flat gave her usual dirty look when Aziraphale bobbed up and down in something that was part curtsey, part dignified bow. If he had been wearing a hat(2), he would have doffed it. As it was, he waved with the potted plant and stepped to the side in time to avoid being elbowed as she pushed her way out of the building muttering about rentboys and how the neighbourhood had gone down hill since Thatcher left office. “And a lovely day to you, Madam,” he called after her. 

Choosing to take the stairs rather than the lift, Aziraphale was a touch winded when he reached Crowley’s flat. He twirled his hand over the knob and it unlocked and opened for him then closed politely. The television was playing a cooking show in Welsh, and the expansive stereo system was playing Mendelssohn’s Lieder for violin which he recognised as being a recording of an amateur musician they had made the acquaintance of several decades before(3). They clashed terribly and Aziraphale fumbled with the remote control, pointing it at both devices and pressing buttons until the television finally went silent, but not before the screen lost all traces of blue, a second image appeared in the corner, and the channel changed to CBeebies where a felt puppet told him why it was important to eat his greens. 

“The power button’s at the top, Angel.” 

He could hear the affectionate chuckle that tinged Crowley’s tone and Aziraphale grinned as he turned to present him with the flower. His cheeks warmed and he couldn’t quite decide where his eyes should be focusing before sheepishly landing on his face and staying there. 

Crowley was perched atop the great stone bird, his own wings draped about him like a robe. The feathers were fluffed up with a few damaged ones removed and left in a pile on his lap. His hair was that glossy, meticulous mess that could only be achieved with careful application of hair gel, styling mousse, and occult forces. Or shoving ones head into a toilet and hitting the flush. 

Aziraphale remembered when he used to weave the fallen feathers into his braids, and how they would twist and dance with the breeze. How thick locks of scarlet hair would whip across his face when those breezes would grow into hot desert winds and the angel would reach out to brush them back and tuck them behind his ear with a soft, mother hennish cluck. 

“Doing some preening?” he asked finally after a fight with his mouth to get it to work enough to form words when all it wanted to do was stay stretched into a broad and delighted smile. 

“Mmn,” Crowley touched one feather to his forehead in a salute. “They were getting itchy. I can feel them even when they’re not really  _ there _ , you know? It’s like I want to kick out and thrash about, but I’m all bound up and can’t move. So-” He stretched his arms then his wings. The tips brushed the walls, the flight feathers spreading while the downy underside ruffled to make them look larger and more intimidating(4). “Grooming day.” 

Gathering up the shed feathers, he hopped down from the sculpture and crossed the room, each of his limbs moving in a different rhythm. Even his wings managed to sashay from side to side and flick out. Aziraphale had once watched a nature documentary which featured a fantastically plumed and flashy bird hopping about and desperately trying to show off to a dowdy, beige mate in hopes of making enough of an impression to get permission to bring the other treats. Why the thought came to his mind, the angel couldn’t say.

“You shouldn’t have,” Crowley demurred, trading the feathers for the flower and pressing his face into the leaves. He breathed over the plant, rubbing his cheek over the waxy leaves and brushing his nose against the spiked petals. “Well hello, beautiful,” he rumbled to it. 

“Oh, I do so like this new cut and my barber does such a better job at shaving than I do, but I’d hardly say that I’m, ah and I just realised that you’re speaking to the plant.” Aziraphale bloomed and wilted in short order. “Yes, well. I saw it in a shop window, and knew that it would make a lovely addition to your jungle,” he said in an attempt to recover some of his dropped dignity before he accidentally kicked it under the carpet. He tucked the shed feathers behind one ear and huffed out. 

Still purring obscenely to the flower, Crowley winked at his counterpart across the leaves, looking for all the world like the last thing a rich American dentist would see before being pounced on from the canopy and devoured, leaving only a belt buckle and an arm for identification. “I have the perfect place for you.” Carrying the plant like a temple offering, Crowley crossed the flat to the rest of his greenery. The others quivered and turned their leaves to display how bright and healthy they were. “I have a new friend for you,” he explained, turning in a circle so they could all meet the newest addition. “Make them feel welcome. I’m sure you’ll be able to learn some tips from them on how to be ideal.” Crowley set the pot on top of a white marble pillar which had not been there before entering the room. The bird of paradise trembled slightly, its leaves already missing his attention. He gave it one last caress before turning back. 

“You really should stop being so sinister to your plants. How would they feel if they found out that-” Aziraphale glanced into the climate controlled room where leaves and vines were already stretching out toward the newest arrival to welcome it and ask how it had gotten such gentle treatment. “-You just return the disappointing ones to their natural environment?” he finished with a whisper. 

“Ssstt!” Crowley flapped his hands and pushed Aziraphale back to the living room. “Don’t let them hear you, or they’ll all turn brown in protest.” He flopped onto the sofa, letting his arms and legs arrange themselves where they pleased and pointed to the kitchen. “There’s wine in the fridge. Pour us a glass, will you?” 

On the top shelf of a fridge which wasn’t plugged in, were several bottles of white zinfandel with the Tesco price stickers still affixed to the necks and a wheel of cheese which had been made by French Canadian friars. By the time the wine had filled two glasses, it had become a beautifully sweet riesling, and an oaked chardonnay. As far as miracles went, turning wine into much better wine was hardly going to draw attention. All he had to do was convince it to reach its full potential. And occasionally convince it that it was made with entirely different grapes(5).

“Too bad you can’t get your wings out at the barber and let him have at them,” Crowley murmured after his sip of riesling. 

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale found space on the sofa by moving one of Crowley’s legs and sat primly to nurse his own glass, glad that it was already chilled. The summer heat was setting in, and humidity was sitting like a blanket over the city, and everything outside had an unpleasant yellow cast to it that reminded them both of the Industrial Revolution, just without all the eels. “My wings are for carrying me in flight, not for showing off. They don’t need to be perfect, they just need to be serviceable. Like a good pair of shoes. Erm.” He stole a glance down at his feet which were in a pair of butter soft tan Ferragamo oxfords with book shaped gold tags threaded onto the laces before awkwardly trying to tuck them under the sofa. “At least I didn’t get the brogues,” he fussed. “Really, Crowley, is that laughter necessary?” 

Holding the glass out of the way so he didn’t spill it while sitting upright, Crowley pointed a red tipped nail in his friend’s direction, spinning it in a circle. “You,” he said, tapping the other on the tip of the nose causing Aziraphale to go cross eyed for a moment. “My posh and pampered peacock, are as vain as I am. You just happen to fall into that strange category of picking up your fashion ideas from Golden Era actors and those short little fellows who live in holes.” 

“While you get yours from musicians who will one day get electrocuted for trying to fellate a microphone on stage,” he replied with just enough acid in his tone that he felt briefly guilty.

Until Crowley writhed back against the sofa cushions, his wings a stark contrast to the bright white of the leather. “Exactly! One cannot tempt, if one doesn’t have a pleasing form.” He gestured to himself, clearly an invitation to admire his appearance which Aziraphale chose to ignore. “Besides, the jeans are comfortable,” he lied(6). 

“Of course they are, dear,” said Aziraphale, who had long since been able to recognise when Crowley lied, and when it was best to just humour the poor thing. “I don’t see why you feel you need to be alluring to tempt mortals. It’s not as if you encourage them to lust. Not since-”

“I keep telling you, I didn’t  _ mean  _ for Kit to fall for me,” the demon grumbled miserably. “It just sort of… happened.” You let an angel witness you leaping onto a table in a panic to avoid a human’s advance  _ once _ , and you never hear the end of it. But that, of course, was a tale for a different day. 

With a teasing moue, Aziraphale patted Crowley on the knee. “If anyone could make someone fall, it is you.” 

Crowley tipped his head down, the way he did when he wanted to look pointedly over the frames of his glasses. Which would have been more impactful if he had actually been wearing them. As it was, it only served to make him look like was trying to snap his own spine. Aziraphale blinked rapidly and turned his attention back to his wine glass which was empty, but that didn’t stop him from pretending to take another sip, hoping the moment would pass. 

It didn’t pass, so much as retreat for another day. 

“So,” he eventually choked out, hoping his red cheeks didn’t clash too terribly with his tie. “You truly think my wings could do with some grooming?” 

Crowley accepted the shift and melted into a more comfortable pose. “Definitely. Last time I saw them, half of your flight feathers were ragged, and they all smelled musty.” 

“I do not  _ smell _ !” His mouth open in a little O of shock and dismay, Aziraphale considered refilling his glass just so he had something to throw in Crowley’s face. 

“Mmhmm. Like something you’d find in an attic. An old lap rug or something. Maybe a bad taxidermy piece.” Swirling the rest of his wine in his glass, Crowley twitched an eyebrow up. 

“Is that so!” Mustering up some righteous indignation, Aziraphale jumped to his feet. Wavered a moment while the wine in his system made its presence known. Then scrambled with the buttons on his waistcoat with one hand while the other yanked at his bow tie. “I’ll show you musty taxidermy!” 

Chuckling and draining his glass, Crowley squirmed to sit up. It was so nice sometimes, to know that he wasn’t the only one who could be easily manipulated. 

There was a pattern across Aziraphale’s skin which looked almost like a tattoo, but mostly like scar tissue. The faintest outline of feathers which spanned from his shoulder blades to his arms, and disappeared down the waistband of his trousers. They glowed softly blue for a moment and Aziraphale winced when the wings erupted from his back with a loud clap of displaced air. He whirled around and spread them out. Not in the eager display of a randy song bird, but in the threatening defiance of a truly pissed off swan. 

“Oh dear.” The wings sagged. “They do smell.” Deflated, the angel sat and brought one wing around to stroke it mournfully. After a moment he looked over at Crowley through his lashes, his pout more pronounced(7). “Don’t they?” 

“No, Angel. No. They aren’t that bad.” Crowley tossed the glass aside and it rolled away under the entertainment system. He sat up and reached out to touch the curve of one wing. “They’re just a bit messy, is all.” Running his hand over it, he felt the sharp spurs which could gouge and tear flesh if properly motivated, and the ropey muscles needed to hold a man-shaped creature of his size aloft. 

Not for the first time, Crowley was glad he had never faced Aziraphale in battle. Even if the only weaponry he ever wielded nowadays were sarcastic remarks, fluttering eyes, and the occasional flaming butter knife, he was still a warrior. And those wings could club him hard enough to leave a Crowley shaped hole in the wall. 

“Here, turn around,” he tutted. 

“I suppose I just don’t pay them the same sort of attention you do with yours.” Aziraphale turned around and folded his waistcoat and shirt neatly to set on the back of the sofa. He shook the wings out, each feather raising with a little flex of the muscles. “It’s not as if I spend time floating around on clouds with them out.” 

Crowley hesitated for a moment then plunged his fingers into the cluster of fluffy down at the base of each wing. The scent wasn’t musty, but it was strong. It overpowered the Lady Grey and honey aroma of Aziraphale’s cologne with something more natural. Crowley put his nose close to the feathers and breathed it in with his eyes closed until he managed to place it. 

It was the rich, earthy scent of the Garden. It was tart apple juice rolling down his chin and new leaves unfurling in the sun and the first rain drops mixing with dust and soil while the first strikes of lightning sent the hair on his neck standing. It smelled of Home. 

Heaven hadn’t been home for so long, he barely remembered it. Hell was never supposed to feel like a place to return to. 

But the Garden, it had been where he found his sense of self. Where he had become Crowley. Not Gadreel, not Crawly, not the anxious angel wanting clarification from a dismissive parent, or the lowly demon being ordered to make trouble. Where he had woven together bits of the night sky and the warm glow of the first sunset to create himself in his own image with black wings, fiery hair, and a desperate grin. 

“Are you all right?” 

Crowley came back to the present, not realising he had rested his forehead against the back of his friend’s neck while he had sunk into the memories of those few years when it had just been the two of them in the Garden, tossing apples back and forth and trying to come up with better names for some of the animals while they waited for their reassignments. Those days had stretched out like a long and lazy holiday with Crowley finding all the best rocks to nap on and Aziraphale discovering that certain leaves made a delicious drink after steeping in hot water. They gossiped about their superiors, tried to reason what the Plan might actually be, and explored every inch of the Garden together. He remembered nights under the stars when he had shyly pointed out the red rose of a nebula he had created and the warm glow that came of being praised for his hard work. Days of basking in Aziraphale’s attention and finding himself drawn to him more and more until he knew he’d follow him even on the other side of the walls. 

“Just thinking about the good old days,” he confessed, turning his head so he could rest his cheek on the angel’s skin. 

Aziraphale reached back to pat at Crowley’s thigh. “You don’t think these days are just as good?” 

The demon straightened. 

Aziraphale had his head down, his neck exposed completely, with his wings hanging limp and relaxed. Complete trust was in every soft line of him, but it was entirely unconscious. As if he didn’t have to even consider it. 

“Better,” he said softly and drew his hands out of the feathers. Several tufts of white fluff came out and fell to his lap. 

The flight feathers were tangled and most of them had the barbs separated on the vanes. A couple were even snapped. Working slowly, feather by feather, Crowley stroked the surface of each until the barbs hooked back together and they laid smooth. The broken ones were quickly plucked out and Crowley expertly ducked the flying elbow that came in response and accepted the immediate apology. 

His plant mister materialised on the coffee table and he sprayed a fine coating of water over the most damaged feathers- the first three or four primaries on either wing. Breathing over the water to make it steam, Crowley slid each one between his fingers to flex and repair it. 

All the while, Aziraphale gradually melted deeper and deeper into the sofa. His usually grooming routine involved giving his wings a shake and pulling out anything that was so damaged as to hamper his flight. He so rarely took to the skies that he often forgot to release them for years. He’d never trusted another angel with the task of preening him, and it got awkward trying to twist around to see the back of them in a mirror when he was alone in the back room of his shop. 

Crowley’s slightly pointed nails felt heavenly combing through the feathers and grazing against the skin. It was a wonderfully shivery sensation that sent sizzles down his spine and left his stomach with that same fluttering feeling he got when opening an illuminated manuscript for the first time. 

He turned around and sat cross legged to face his demon and beckoned silently. A pristine raven black wing stretched forward for him to return the favour. Aziraphale buried his fingers into the axillary feathers between Crowley’s back and the wing itself where they were most likely to get mussed up and gave him a good, deep scratch.

“I had no idea you were ticklish!” he cried out with delight when Crowley managed to stop squirming and twisting about before scratching again in earnest. The sounds the other made were divine. 

Teeth bared between laughs, Crowley jerked away for a breath, only to put himself back under Aziraphale’s hands for more attention. “Neither did I. It doesn’t tickle when I touch them.” He was a little breathless and his cheeks were bright. It didn’t need to be said that no one else had ever touched them. Demons protected their wings as even more highly prized than angels. Whether it was unconscious or not, they wanted to protect their last physical connection to where they had come from. It was unheard of to ask another to groom them. No demon would trust another not to pluck them bare just for the fun of it. 

Crowley pressed his wings into Aziraphale’s hands, his eyes closed as he laughed openly. 

Feathers flew. But they had already been shed, and could be gathered up later. So that was all right. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


1- It was Crowley, in 128 BC. A pewter tintinnabulum. The usual phallus charm had been carefully reshaped into a winged snake. Aziraphale had worn it around his neck for two centuries until the chain corroded and slipped off. It was later discovered by archaeologists and both angel and demon have attempted to steal it back from the British Museum where it sits in a display case of fertility symbols. 

2- Aziraphale only wore hats on those days when he missed the comforting weight and warmth of his halo in his corporeal form. Crowley only wore hats on those days when his hair refused to do the proper sticky up bit at the front. 

3- The young man’s charming little detective agency had helped Aziraphale track down the owner of a pair of exceptionally rare pearl cufflinks which had been left in the shop while his biographer and Crowley shared a heated debate about The HMS Pinafore which almost came to blows.

4- At least, that was his hope. In actuality, it made him look like a very content, inky black budgie. 

5- Turning wine to tequila on the other hand took much more effort and was best left to infernal powers unless one wanted to get right royally sauced. And those times, it was usually much easier to just snaffle a bottle from the local pub while your enemy turned friend turned  _ something  _ distracted the wait staff and stole the limes. The healing required the next day was almost always worth it. 

6- He actually considered suggested to Down Below using skinny jeans as a torture device, and the only reason he was seen wearing them so often was part Aesthetic™, part due to the fact that it took a near miracle to actually get them on and he’d be further damned if he would do that more than once a week. He missed togas. 

7- While Crowley was reading Home and Garden and underlining bits in red, Aziraphale had picked up a magazine in the waiting room for his nail appointment and perused an article called Seven Deadly Tips To Bend Him To Your Will. And while tips three through seven were best left for mortals or those with more flexible bodies, the others had been very successful. Number five had been tempting, though. But then, he liked anything with whipped cream on top. 

  
Crowley's Nebula:


End file.
